


my heart is barely what it used to be

by amaanogawa



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Deepthroating, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, a ton of sylvain angst just because i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26517583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaanogawa/pseuds/amaanogawa
Summary: Tomorrow, they storm Enbarr.“Your highness,” Sylvain chuckles, savouring the way Dimitri’s sunlight lashes flutter as he leans in, “all of Faerghus will weep if they found out their king didn’t know his way around a simple kiss.”
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 152





	my heart is barely what it used to be

It’s the end of the world, probably, and the future king of Fodlan is sitting cross legged on Sylvain’s floor, twiddling his thumbs and glancing around the room bashfully as if he hasn’t ever set foot in Sylvain’s room before.

Five years seems like an entire lifetime away now, back when a younger, more round-faced Dimitri often sat across from him, watching him like a hawk to make sure he actually finished his combat tactic reports instead of running off after yet another merchant’s daughter. The Dimitri that exists today is sharper around the edges—covered in scars and sporting bags under his eyes like he hasn’t known a night of good sleep in the years that have passed them by. At least that makes two of them, Sylvain thinks, not without a hint of bitterness twisting in the base of his gut. 

But still, just like back then, Sylvain catches Dimitri’s eye and Dimitri flashes him a small smile, and somehow everything has changed but at the same time, nothing has changed at all. 

If any remnant chunks are left of Sylvain’s charcoal heart behind his chestpiece, they tremble at the sight—Dimitri has always been capable of doing that to Sylvain. It’s those big baby blues of his, Sylvain muses, scratching idly at some mud caked on the metal knee pad of his armour. They’ve been playing this game for a long, long time now—the one where Dimitri looks at him, eyes full of expectations and hope, and Sylvain somehow feels like he actually means something more than just a flesh host for the gautier crest. As if he has more to give, and more to take, but to this day he isn’t quite sure which of those is a greater fear for someone like him.

That is to say—someone who is barely more than a hollowed out bone, his inner marrow long scooped out by a shadowy figure with a silver handled spoon in hand. Some nights, in his dreams, it’s Miklan—other times, his father. Either way, before long he’ll splinter into shards and protrude out of his very skin. Some part of him hopes he dies alone so that his friends don’t have to bear witness to that kind of ugliness. They deserve better, he thinks. They’ve always deserved better. 

“Sylvain?”

Sylvain turns at the sound of Dimitri’s voice, chin still resting lazily in his hand with a hum midway from rolling off his tongue when something collides with his face, and his lip is pinched in between whatever clacks against his teeth, hard enough to draw blood. 

By the time the initial shock wears off, Sylvain blinks and Dimitri is pulling back with a blush spreading like wildfire over his face and his visible eye is widening in panic.

“O-oh, oh goddess—you’re bleeding! I’m so sorry, it wasn’t my intention to hurt you. Seiros, where is my kerchief—“

It’s amidst Dimitri’s flailing, as a drop of blood rolls off of Sylvain’s lip and down his chin, that it clicks.

_ Oh. The thing that he’d just collided with was Dimitri’s face—no, Dimitri’s lips— _

“...Dimitri? What was that?” Sylvain asks dumbly, wincing when Dimitri presses a piece of folded cloth to his mouth. Dimitri’s lips flatten into a rigid line, like he’s full of regret, and when he goes to move away Sylvain reacts on instinct and seizes his wrist to keep him close. 

“I apologize, Sylvain,” he says slowly, eye nervously flitting between the floor and Sylvain’s face. “Truth be told, I’ve held an—an  _ affection _ for you since we were children, and tomorrow we storm Enbarr, so I figured…well. It was a foolish thing to do.”

Dimitri glances up then, looking fearful, of all things—as if there is any world in which Sylvain wouldn’t give every last remaining shard of himself for his king if it was asked of him. Not out of patriotism, but  _ love _ , because he loves Dimitri. Dimitri is family, and that’s something Sylvain is good at, after all—he gives himself away, piece by piece, until there is nothing left to rot at the bottom of the well. 

Had he known, he’d have saved a bigger part for Dimitri. By now there isn’t much left, certainly nothing worthy of a king— _ his king— _ but tomorrow is the end of the world, and it’d be a privilege to spend the last of it skin-to-skin with someone he cherishes, and most surprising of all, someone who claims to love him in return. 

“Your highness,” Sylvain chuckles, savouring the way Dimitri’s sunlight lashes flutter as he leans in, “all of Faerghus will weep if they found out their king didn’t know his way around a simple kiss.”

Their lips meet and this time Sylvain crawls forward to press into Dimitri’s space. He feels greedy—drinking in the way Dimitri’s breath hitches when Sylvain deepens the kiss, fingertips slipping into the matted fur of Dimitri’s cape and wishing he could feel the human warmth of Dimitri’s skin instead of being separated by layers upon layers of armour meant for the savagery of war.

Sylvain is used to giving but he’s not so sure how to take—how to ask if he’s allowed to take, not when it really matters, at least. Not from someone like Dimitri. 

But then Dimitri wraps his hands— _ his massive,  _ massive hands—around Sylvain’s waist, hauls him into his lap and Sylvain is licking into Dimitri’s mouth and drawing an honest to goddess  _ growl _ from the depths of Dimitri’s lungs and Sylvain swears he hears his armour dent a little under the pressure of Dimitri’s fingertips. 

The kiss is a little sloppy, a little clumsy, but it’s so endearingly  _ Dimitri.  _ Nonetheless Sylvain does his best to show Dimitri the ropes, slowing down their movements and putting a little more finesse into the way their lips slot together. After all, they have time right now—and if this is the first and maybe last time they can ever do this, he wants to do it right. 

By the time Sylvain pulls back, Dimitri’s lips are satisfyingly kiss bitten and plumped, and his visible eye has glossed over like he well and truly lost himself in the moment. 

“Hey, handsome,” Sylvain quips, brushing back a stray lock of hair from Dimitri’s face, and despite blushing all the way down to his neck, the sunny smile that blooms across his face is nothing less than radiant.

“Hello, Sylvain,” he replies, just before placing his hand on the back of Sylvain’s neck and dragging him in for another kiss. 

Dimitri is an eager learner and a quick study. This time Sylvain lets him take the lead, biting back a whine when Dimitri’s tongue slides against his, hot and perfect and when Sylvain moves to undo the clasps that bind Dimitri’s cape to the shoulder pieces of his armour, Dimitri responds in kind. Removing armour is a struggle in its own right, even more so when they both refuse to pull away from the other for more than a few moments at a time, but piece by piece all the heavy metal clatters to the floor, until all that’s left is the two of them in their smalls, a mess of lips and tongue and teeth.

“Your highness,” Sylvain pants, just before Dimitri sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of his neck, and despite the pain, Sylvain doesn’t register wanting anything other than  _ more _ . He feels insatiable tonight—like a leaking bucket that will never fill, like he could take all that Dimitri wants to give and still feel hollow on the inside.

That, he supposes, imminent death be damned, has not changed. 

“Call me by my name,” Dimitri says, tongue laving against the bruised skin he’d left behind.

“ _ Dimitri _ . Let me touch you?”

The groan that Dimitri lets out as his forehead falls to lean against Sylvain’s shoulder is one of depravity. “Yes,” he whispers, “goddess, yes. Please touch me.”

An inadvertent shiver makes its way down Sylvain’s spine when he slips his hand under Dimitri’s smalls—because Dimitri is  _ massive _ . Sure, he’d gotten an eyeful or two back in the day when they found themselves in the sauna together, but that is very different from having the heated shaft pulsing in his hand. It’s no joke to say that Sylvain starts  _ salivating _ like a damn dog, because he’s never wanted to feel that hot weight on his tongue more than right this very minute. 

So he shifts his weight onto his knees and shimmies out of Dimitri’s lap, a little inelegantly mind you, and drops forward to nuzzle against the bulge in Dimitri’s smalls, a satisfied smile gracing his face when Dimitri let’s out a frustrated rumble and reaches down to curl his fingers under Sylvain’s jaw.

“ _ Sylvain, _ ” he breathes, visible eye dark with possessiveness. “Goddess, you’re—“

“Like what you see?” Sylvain quips, dragging the waistline of Dimitri’s smalls down to let his cock spring free.

It takes a beat for Dimitri to reply, and Sylvain chalks it up to bashfulness as he traces the tip of his tongue up the underside of Dimitri’s thick cock, lapping up the bead of salty precome that drips down the shaft. But then Dimitri’s hand is hot on the back of his head, his calluses catching slightly on Sylvain’s fiery hair, and when Sylvain glances upwards his breath hitches at the heavy blood lust in Dimitri’s gaze. 

”I do, very much so,” Dimitri says slowly, smiling when he notices Sylvain’s eyelids fluttering as he threads his fingers through the long locks of hair, making a light fist as if to test the waters—not even tight enough to tug. Sylvain peers up through his quivering lashes, a silent plea evident in the way his eyes widen, and then Dimitri is tightening his grip and fully fisting a handful of Sylvain’s hair. 

“But then again, I imagine many more have laid eyes on this same sight,” Dimitri continues, using Sylvain’s hair as a handle to thrust against—tentatively, at first, but when Sylvain slackens his jaw in response, a ragged groan vibrating out from his chest, Dimitri’s smile turns a little wicked around the edges. “You kept good company back in our academy days, didn’t you now?”

Oh, that certainly  _ is _ possessiveness thickly lining the spaces between Dimitri’s words, and it turns Sylvain on so much he swears he might start dripping onto the damn floor. Dimitri is thrusting fully into Sylvain’s mouth now, his cock bumping the back of Sylvain’s throat enough for his eyes to water despite the fact that he’s always been blessedly devoid of a gag reflex. Dimitri tastes like saltskin, smells of musk, and most importantly, fills him up so well that Sylvain feels himself getting addicted to the sensation of Dimitri’s weight on his tongue.

“So pretty, sweetheart,” Dimitri grunts, jerking forward until Sylvain chokes around him. “Goddess, the way you take me…”

He feels so well and thoroughly used, and though back in the day it used to make him feel filthy, feel tarnished, this time it does the exact opposite—all he wants is more. It’s a privilege to be used by Dimitri, to make Dimitri feel good, to be drooling on Dimitri’s thick cock, and Sylvain’s eyes go half lidded at the thought.

Dimitri releases his hold on Sylvain’s hair and Sylvain crumples to the floor, spit smeared across his chin as he sucks in deep, crackly gasps of air. He feels a warm thumb wiping away the stay tears that threaten to drop from his eyelashes, and then he’s being hauled upwards into strong arms and carried to bed. 

“Sylvain,” Dimitri murmurs, setting him down gently while planting kisses along his temple. “My sweet Sylvain. You are so amazing, beloved.”

Despite being caught between the haze of arousal and slight oxygen deprivation, Sylvain kind of wants to laugh—a mere minute ago Dimitri had been choking him on his monster dick, and now he’s kissing his cheek and calling him  _ beloved _ . 

Goddess. Only Dimitri. 

“Dima,” Sylvain slurs, the childhood nickname falling from his lips easier than he thought it would. He winds his arms around Dimitri’s shoulders, feels the thick cords of muscle shifting under his hands, and whispers into Dimitri’s ear, “I want you in me.”

There’s a sharp hiss of breath that Dimitri sucks in through his teeth, his fingers digging into Sylvain’s hips hard enough to leave bruises in their wake. 

“Want you to stretch me open, baby, take you in and bounce up and down for you,” Sylvain continues, relishing in how easily his words can make Dimitri shake—evidence of the power he holds over a  _ king _ , taking him apart with nothing more than a whisper. “C’mon, your highness, make a mess of me.”

Dimitri’s answer is to seize Sylvain’s waist and flip him around so quickly it makes Sylvain’s head spin, leaving him disoriented long enough for Dimitri to shuck his smalls, spread his cheeks, and lean in.

“ _ Dimitri! _ Fuck—!” Sylvain gasps, feeling Dimitri’s thumbs hook his rim, prying him apart. For how much the group all make fun of Dimitri for his good naturedness and impeccable mannerisms, Sylvain will never again laugh at anything involving Dimitri’s tongue again. Not when it’s currently stretching him open and making him drool onto the damn pillow.

“So tight.” Dimitri pulls back just enough to murmur the words, and the sound of a bottle uncorking is the only warning Sylvain gets before Dimitri’s is pressing his oiled finger in, fully down to the knuckle. “I don’t think I’ll fit, beloved.”

“You’ll fit,” Sylvain says, breath hitching at the end of the second word when Dimitri’s finger grazes his prostate. He doesn’t know where the oil came from—can only imagine that it’s some bottle of high quality sword oil that Dimitri carries around in his cloak. He used to roll his eyes at how diligent the weapon-crazy bunch were at keeping up with maintenance, but it’s certainly come back to work in his favour. “I can take you. I can.”

He swears he can  _ hear _ the smile on Dimitri’s face when he says, “We’ll have to make sure you’re well prepared then, won’t we?”

And that’s what Dimitri does—he lays Sylvain on his back and works him open, three fingers deep, until Sylvain’s jaw goes slack and his toes are curling in the air, legs propped up against Dimitri’s shoulders. Time feels meaningless. Sylvain couldn’t say how many minutes or hours pass—all he knows is that somewhere between then and now, Dimitri crooks his fingers just so and Sylvain wails as he comes untouched, streaks of white decorating his chest like garlands.

The world is ending tomorrow, probably, but that means very little when the present moment finds Sylvain shuddering through the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s had in ages and Dimitri is leaning down, brushing his lips delicately against Sylvain’s sweaty, flushed cheek.

“Dima _ — _ ” Sylvain says, overstimulated to hell and yet still desperate to be filled, “enough, enough, want you to fuck me now, come  _ on _ —”

To this, Dimitri lets out a single shaky breath.

“Okay,” he says, brows furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, his golden lashes fanned out across his cheek and trembling ever so slightly. “Okay.”

He shifts, pushing Sylvain’s legs up with a hand under each knee, and then the blunt tip of Dimitri’s cock is pressing up against his hole. When Dimitri pushes inside, there’s a delicious burn that makes Sylvain moan and drag his nails down the planes of Dimitri’s back, the sensation of being filled, the wondrous, euphoric feeling of no longer being hollow.

There’s no space for any extra thoughts. Not here, not when Dimitri’s sinking his teeth into Sylvain’s shoulder hard enough to leave a mark and he’s rocking in so deep, Sylvain swears he can feel it in his throat.

“G-goddess—” Sylvain laughs shakily. “Fuck. You’re h-huge.”

Dimitri stops dead, looking down concernedly and refuses to move despite Sylvain’s immediate whining. “Are you alright?” He breathes, caressing Sylvain’s cheek. “Are you in pain, beloved?”

It’s a question that Sylvain isn’t quite sure how to answer—on one hand, yes, there is a twinge of pain from being impaled by Dimitri’s impressive girth, to say the least. But it’s a pain that Sylvain welcomes—one that trails off into the beginnings of pleasure, especially when Dimitri shifts and his cock brushes just so against Sylvain’s prostate. It’s a pain that comes from someone who runs his fingers through Sylvain’s hair and looks down at him with his forehead lined with worry, which is to say, Sylvain is not in any pain at all. 

Or maybe he  _ is _ , actually, because he’s  _ Sylvain _ and the weight of such tenderness in Dimitri’s eyes makes him want to forget how to exist. 

“Baby, if you don’t move,” Sylvain says carefully, licking his lips and squeezing his eyes shut so that he doesn’t have to look at Dimitri hovering over him, “I think I’m going to die.”

Dimitri chuckles at that, worry shifting to satisfaction as he gives a tentative thrust, just enough to make Sylvain keen. “Impatient, Syl. Then again, patience never has been your strong suit.”

When Dimitri starts fucking him—that is to say,  _ really _ starts fucking him—it’s all Sylvain can do to hold on for dear life, sinking his teeth into Dimitri’s shoulder as his toes curl. The unbidden strength with which Dimitri slams into him leaves Sylvain breathless, feeling fuller than he ever has before, his jaw going slack because Dimitri rises onto his knees, shoves two pillows under Sylvain’s waist and  _ oh, fuck, _ that’s hitting a new fucking angle entirely.

“D-Dima, Dimitri, D—” Sylvain babbles, moving to press his palm against the plane of his abdomen where he swears he can feel Dimitri’s shape sliding inside of him. “S’good, Di _ ma—a—! _ ”

“Hush, Sylvain,” Dimitri murmurs, chiding. He presses a kiss to the side of Sylvain’s knee. “You’ll wake up the entire floor, at this rate. Is that what you want?”

The words slip out inadvertently. “Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve heard me,” Sylvain laughs lightly, and he doesn’t realize what he’s done until the room is spinning around him and he lands with a soft grunt onto his stomach, crying out as Dimitri pushes back inside of him.

“Indeed.” There’s no missing the way Dimitri’s voice dips low when he places a massive hand in between Sylvain’s shoulder blades and pushes him into the bedding. “I certainly remember hearing you back when we were students.”

His thrusts get rougher, spurred on by Sylvain’s muffled whimpering against the sheets, railing into him so hard that his knees buckle and all that’s holding him up is Dimitri’s iron grip on his hips. Tears bead at the corners of his eyes, and  _ goddess, _ he wants to come— _ needs to come _ , but it builds and it builds and Sylvain sobs, teetering on the edge of release but never quite making it over.

“I’d lay in bed, listening to your voice as you laid with a complete stranger,” Dimitri goes on, his voice almost conversational if it weren’t for the gruffness and the nasty backdrop of skin slapping against skin echoing as he speaks, “and admire how sweet your moans were. Wishing it were me laying with you. Wishing you were mine.”

Dimitri hauls Sylvain upright with one hand on his chest, sheathing him on his cock all the way down to the base. Fireworks burst behind his eyelids as Sylvain wails loud enough to wake the dead. 

“Yours,” he cries, head lolling against Dimitri’s shoulder, “I’m yours, only yours—”

Even without looking, he can hear the smile on Dimitri’s face as he bounces Sylvain in his lap, leans in to press their cheeks together, and murmurs, “good boy.”

Of all things, it’s those two words that pushes Sylvain over the edge. He whites out entirely, clenching down on Dimitri’s cock and trembling like a damn leaf even though barely anything drips from his spent dick. Dumb with overstimulation and satiation, Sylvain barely registers Dimitri thrusting once, twice more before the sound of splintering wood echoes through the room and Dimitri stills, shivering against Sylvain’s sweat slicked skin.

Sylvain slumps forward into the sheets feeling like all of his limbs are made of jelly. After all the people he’s slept with to date, he doesn’t think he has ever been fucked so thoroughly before.  _ The qualities that set a king apart from the rest, alright, _ he thinks to himself, pressing his tired smirk into the pillow. It takes a few moments before he notices the sharp edge of something stuck to his arm and he reaches up in confusion to pluck it from his skin.

“...wh—Dima,” he says, squinting blearily at the shard of wood in his fingers, and then down at the mess of wooden bits sprayed across the sheets, and finally to the hunk of wood clenched in Dimitri’s fist. “Did you… break my bed?”

“I—” Dimitri looks a mix of mortified and confused when he blinks down at his own hand, as if he has no idea how that could have gotten there. “Oh. Oh my. I think… I think I did, yes.”

Goddess. This is the man who will rule the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and more importantly, the man who just fucked Sylvain within an inch of his damn life and here he is perched on his knees, staring down at Sylvain all doe-eyed with a mouthful of apologies. When it’s just the two of them like this, it’s easy to feel like nothing has changed from more than a decade ago, that afternoon when Sylvain had found Dimitri hunched over the ruined board game he’d borrowed from him, fat teardrops rolling down his reddened cheeks with an overturned goblet of grape juice on the table slowly staining the board purple.

Those pretty baby blues. There’s nothing Sylvain can do in the face of them but laugh and laugh and plop his whole heart, missing pieces be damned, right into the palm of Dimitri’s hand.

“Put that thing down,” Sylvain snorts, sweeping the wood chips off of the sheets. “It’s late, I’m sore as hell and we should get some shut-eye. Big day tomorrow, y’know.”

“Oh, Sylvain,” Dimitri frets, “I shouldn’t have been so rough on you. If your body is affected tomorrow—” 

“I assure you, your highness, if I die on the battlefield, it won’t be because of your monster dong.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but the minute he chuckles afterwards he knows he’s made a mistake when the look on Dimitri’s face sours. Sylvain knows what’s coming—but he’s much too tired to dig deep for sentimentality now, because he feels boneless and sated and his immediate thought is how Dimitri’s arms look like they’d make a perfect pillow for the night.

“Sylvain, I—”

“That’s a death flag,” Sylvain blurts, flipping over to lie on his back so that he can look up at Dimitri properly. Dimitri is still holding that stupid handful of Sylvain’s headboard, which makes Sylvain laugh in exasperation as he plucks it out of his iron grip and chucks it onto the floor. 

“What?”

“It’s something Ashe told me about. A literary thing where the knight does something before the big battle that makes his death all the more dramatic or whatever. Like, for example,” Sylvain pauses, mapping out the details of Dimitri’s face and committing it to memory, “a big emotional speech the night before.”

The way Dimitri visibly deflates makes Sylvain smile and reach for him, pulling him down onto the soft sheets. They don’t quite fit on the bed together, considering Sylvain’s feet used to hover near the end of the bed back when he was a student, and Dimitri has grown up to be built like a door. They squirm for a few moments, adjusting their positions. Sometime ago, with anyone else, this would be the perfect excuse to slink away and find some other empty, non-broken bed to curl up in like he’d done so many times in the past.

Ah, the art of escapism. Sylvain’s always been into art.

But in the present time he’s here with Dimitri, and Dimitri’s skin is littered with so many scars that it’d take a week to count them all. Sylvain figures he might as well get a head start.

“I’m not brushing you off,” Sylvain mumbles, tapping his finger along a particularly nasty gash that curves over the side of Dimitri’s ribs. He thinks about how Dimitri had been alone while this wound bled and soaked into the stone underneath him, how desperately Sylvain had searched for him while his blood pooled. He mulls over the fact that Dimitri will never be able to grasp how much this world needs him as a king. But among all, how much Sylvain needs him as  _ Dimitri _ . That same kid with the ruined board game and combat tactic reports and those giant, shimmering baby blues. “It just feels too much like a goodbye.”

“Beloved,” Dimitri murmurs, lips moving against the crown of Sylvain’s head.

It’s the end of the world, probably, but Dimitri is kissing the top of Sylvain’s hair and Sylvain is poking at scar number 34 and in light of these new pieces of evidence, just as Sylvain's eyes slip shut with his nose buried in the hollow of Dimitri's throat, he's thinking that maybe it's not the end of the world at all.

Maybe, he muses, it's only the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> [flashes peace sign]
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/amaanogawa_)


End file.
